With baseball my spirit was always willing but my flesh was weak. One example: I never hit a home run in a game and came close only once. In 1976 I played in a University of Michigan graduate student co-ed softball league. Susan, who would shortly become my wife, batted ahead of me. She hit a ground ball and pulled a muscle leaving the batter's box. She displayed her tenacity—and the mediocrity of the league—by making it to first safely. (The third baseman fielded the ball cleanly but tried to compose the next few sentences of his dissertation before throwing it.)
I helped Susan limp to the sidelines and then went to bat, with a pinch runner taking her place at first. I surprisingly lined the ball over the head of the center fielder, ran the bases in my ponderous way, and while rounding third looked back and saw that the shortstop had caught the throw from the outfield and was prepared to relay the ball to the catcher. A good throw home would nab me so I stopped, pleased with my triple and thinking: No use risking an out, I'll hit a home run some other time.
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